


Why Have You Got Chacos On To Check In On Your Dog At 2 AM?

by orphan_account



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: au: it's 2am. you're in my yard petting my dog and you're obviously drunk off your ass
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is just a fun lil thing! hope it makes U smile :-) might add a second chapter later

Larry wakes to the sound of his dog barking. Assuming it’s morning and she’s barking at a passing car, he presses his face into his pillow in an attempt to go back to sleep. When she doesn’t stop barking, he gives in and blinks his eyes open, expecting to be met with the harsh rays of the sunrise through his window. Instead, his room is completely black. 

Jarred, he swivels his head towards the alarm clock. 2:49 am.  _ What the fuck,  _ he thinks to himself, rolling out of bed and sliding on his Chacos. Grumbling to himself, he blearily walks out into his backyard. 

_ Oh, what the fuck. What the fuck.  _

In his backyard is not only his dog, but also a young man (maybe mid 20s) kneeling down in the grass next to her. Larry rubs his eyes in disbelief, half-expecting to wake up back in bed when he reopens them. 

_ Nope. Still there. Jesus Christ.  _ “Hey!”

The kid lifts his head up. Squinting up at Larry, he mumbles “huh?”

“What the fuck are you doing in my yard at 2am? And why are you petting my dog?” 

“Why have you got Chacos on to check in on your dog at 2 am?”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re the one in my yard -- wait, are you crying?”

“No!” the kid says, sniffling a little.

“No, you totally are, oh my god --”

“I have allergies!”

“It’s December.”

“To dogs!”

“Then why are you petting it?”

“None of your business!”

“It’s my fucking dog in my fucking yard at 2 in the fucking morning! It is very much my business!” 

“Whatever. I’ll just go,” the kid says, getting to his feet and, Immediately, falling back down. 

“Are you drunk or something?”

“No.” he says, before proceeding to throw up on the ground -- narrowly missing the dog.

“Oh, my god. Oh my god. Are you kidding?”

“Sorry,” the kid slurs, “I might maybe be just a little bit.”

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“I said, are you okay? The fact you’re in my yard throwing up from what could very well be alcohol poisoning  _ might maybe just be a little bit _ concerning,” Larry pauses, then, against his better judgement, continues, “Do you need somewhere to stay tonight?”

The kid’s face contorts in a mix of confusion and surprise. “Okay, my turn to ask: are you kidding?” 

_ Last chance, you could take it back. _

Despite himself, he says, “No, I’m serious. I wouldn’t feel right letting you stay out here alone, especially in this area.” 

“Shit. You’re really not joking?” 

“I’m not joking, and I’m not going to repeat myself again.” 

The kid stumbles up from the ground and, again, falls down. Larry mumbles something along the lines of  _ my next place has got to be farther away from those dive bars _ , then heads over to where he’s sitting in the dirt and offers him his hand. 

He takes it and Larry pulls him up, steadying him with both hands.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, um. Thank you.” 

“Okay. Into the house now, one step at a time,” Larry says, carefully guiding him towards the sliding door, “There you go -- take it easy.”

The kid takes a shaky breath in. “I think I’m going to be sick again.”

“That’s okay. Just a few more yards and you’re in the house, you can make it.”

“Okay.”

When they make it inside, Larry points him towards the bathroom, and then, hearing him retching, sighs and knocks on the door.

“You okay in there?”

“Mm Ghghghgh M.”

Larry takes that as a yes and waits on the couch. After about ten minutes, the door creaks open and the kid steps out. 

“Hey, you okay?” Larry asks.

“I feel a lot better.”

“Good. Here, the couch pulls out -- it’s not the most comfortable but it’ll do,” he says, “By the way, I’m Larry.”

“Freddy. And, um, thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it. Sleep well.”

“You too.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> larry makes freddy breakfast <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! wasn't sure if i was gonna continue this but thanks 2 some encouragement (louisewilder im lookin at U...) i have decided to go ahead w it! i'll write a part 3 later today maybe! :-)

_ BEEEP! BEEEP! BEEE- _

Larry’s hand, by muscle memory, slams the alarm clock off. 

_ Why am I so fuckin’ tired -- oh, shit. The kid. _

He hops out of bed, shivering in the cold air leaking in through the open window. Pulling on a slightly moth-eaten cardigan, he hurries down the hall to the living room, where he finds Freddy still sound asleep on the couch.

_ Okay, good. He’s not dead from alcohol poisoning, at least.  _

Reassured, he turns on his CD player (the Beatles’  _ Michelle _ ), puts on a pot of coffee (Colombian dark roast), pops 2 slices of bread in the toaster (one for him and one for Freddy), and cracks three eggs in the frying pan.

“I love this song.”

Larry turns his head and smiles. “Hey, morning. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. My head’s pounding, though, and um, this is embarrassing but what… happened last night?”

“You don’t remember?”

Freddy glances to the left, smiling sheepishly. “Not really. I remember being at the Bronson and getting eighty-sixed, but I don’t remember anything past that. Did we, um --”

Larry feels his face flush. “No, no, we didn’t, uh, we didn’t do anything. You were in my yard petting my dog and then you threw up, a lot, and you crashed on my couch.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just glad you’re okay. Do you want some ibuprofen? Also, I’m making coffee and toast and scrambled eggs.”

Freddy’s silent for a moment, staring at Larry. “You’re making me breakfast?”

“Uh, yeah, I mean. I figure you need some food, and I need breakfast anyway. No trouble to make an extra serving.”

Freddy stares at him again.

“You okay?” Larry asks, a bit unnerved.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just -- I haven’t had someone cook for me since I left home.”

Larry laughs. “It’s no big deal.”

“Still. Thank you, really.”

“Don’t mention it,” Larry says, “Do you want butter on your toast?”

“Sure.”

He grabs the now-toasted slices out of the toaster and spreads butter over one of them. He looks up to tell Freddy that it’s ready, only to find that he’s watching him intently, and with a strange curiosity. 

“You okay, kid?”

Freddy starts. “Oh, uh, yeah, sorry.”

“Here, come sit down.”

Freddy does, stumbling a bit as he gets up -- a side-effect of the vicious hangover Larry suspects he’s got -- and plops down at the table. 

Larry sets down the plate and cup and hands him 3 ibuprofen tablets. “Take these after you eat.”

“Thank you,” Freddy says, “I really -- I really don’t know what to say. I mean, I threw up all over your yard and you’re being so nice and --”

“Hey, it’s no problem. I used to be just like you. Wish I’d had someone to look out for me, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So, tell me -- what are you doing getting black-out drunk on a Sunday night?”

Freddy’s face turns a bright pink. “I, uhm, I don’t know. I got laid off recently and I’ve just been trying to cope however I can. I know it’s not healthy but nothing else works, plus my old college roommate works at the Bronson and gives me a discount and stuff, so… it’s just easy. I’ve been couch-surfing too, staying at his house. I can tell he’s getting sick of me, though, and that’s just... that’s just adding to all this, I guess. 

Larry’s heart twists.  _ This kid’s so young and he’s already going down a bad path,  _ he thinks, and then, to his own surprise, says, “You know, if you want, you could stay here.”

Freddy chokes on his food, and then, coughing, sputters out a “What?!”

“I mean it. Like I said, I used to be in your shoes when I was younger and if I’d had someone to look out for me I probably wouldn’t be --” Larry stops. _If you tell him you’re a career criminal there’s no way he’s taking you up on your offer. Shit._ _  
_ “Wouldn’t be what?”

“Uh, nothin’. Listen, I’ve got to go to work, but genuinely -- if you need somewhere to stay, you’re welcome to crash here.”

“You’re really serious?”

“Take it or leave it. I know my place isn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton, but it gets the job done.”

“No, it’s… it’s great.”

Larry laughs again. “No need to flatter me, kid.”

Freddy smiles, a real, genuine Duchenne smile, and takes a bite of his toast. 


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> larry goes to work and cooks dinner for him + freddy :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! like the second time updating today and it probably won't be the last. hope U enjoy! <3

“Okay, repeat the plan back to me,” Joe says, blowing out a puff of smoke. 

“We go in. Blue stands watch at the door. Pink and I go back to the vault. Brown drives the car. Blonde is crowd control.”

Larry waits for Joe’s reply nervously -- he wasn’t sure if it was Blue or Blonde at the door. 

Joe exhales another smoke cloud. “Exactly.”

Larry relaxes. Joe turns to Pink and repeats the question. 

After he gets through everyone, he dismisses the group with a hand wave and a “See you tomorrow at 11.”

\---

When Larry gets home, Freddy’s on the couch, comic book in hand and Françoise Hardy’s  _ Le Temps de l’Amour _ floating through the air. At the sound of the door opening, Freddy peers over the top of his book.

“Oh, hey! I went back to my friend’s place and got all my stuff,” he says, tipping his head towards a small suitcase leaning on the couch.

“That’s all you have?”

Freddy shrugs and Larry’s heart twists again. 

“Did you have lunch?”

“No. I didn’t know if I could use your food stuff --”

“Oh, my god,  _ please _ do. What, did you think I was just going to let you starve? You’re frail enough as it is.”

He shrugs again and Larry is hit with the realization that Freddy doesn’t seem to have a self-preservation instinct, and he can’t help but wonder  _ why. _

“What?” 

Larry’s shaken from his train of thought by a “What?” from Freddy, and he realizes he’s staring. 

“Nothing, you just -- you remind me a lot of myself, when I was your age.”

“You say  _ my age _ as if you’re not, what, like, ten years older than me at  _ most _ .”

“Flattery’ll get you places, kid,” Larry laughs.

Freddy blushes, and Larry for the life of him can’t figure out why. 

After a moment of Very Awkward silence, Larry says, “I’ll make dinner. Do you have any preference as to what?”

“Uh, do you have Spaghettios?”

Larry can’t hold back a laugh. “You want Spaghettios? Out of all the food in the world?”

“Hey! They’re good!”

“Sure. I don’t have Spaghettios, but I could make spaghetti if you want.”

Freddy smiles. “That sounds really good, actually.”

\---

Larry cooks dinner while Freddy resumes reading. The smell of freshly cut tomatoes and dried oregano in the air coupled with Joe Dassin’s  _ Pauvre Doudou _ drifting over to the kitchen from the living room, Larry feels an overpowering sense of  _ home _ wash over him. 

_ Jeez. I’m getting so sentimental.  _

He drains the spaghetti from the pot and lets the steam escape from the saucepan.

“Hey, dinner’s ready.”

Freddy hops off of the couch, placing the comic book face-down on the coffee table and making himself a small plate.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?”

Freddy looks at him. “Is it okay to take more?”

“Oh, my god, it’s more than okay. Like I said, you’re worryingly slight.”

“Hey! Don’t be rude.”

“It’s not rude, it’s just the truth. Do you ever eat?”

“That’s not fair. I just don’t want to impose on people, especially when they’re giving me a place to stay.”

“A home should provide food. I don’t know about other people, but mine does. C’mon -- eat. Have as much as you like.”

Freddy stares at Larry. 

“What?” Larry says, a little unnerved. 

“Nothing, it’s just -- no one’s ever called it a home, for me, not since I lived with my family.”

Larry’s mind flashes back the memory of being kicked out, his father yelling  _ faggot _ at him while throwing a suitcase packed with his stuff out the front door, and his chest aches. 

“Well, if you’d like, it’s yours now.”

“I would,” Freddy says, “Um, is there -- what’s the, uh, exchange here? I don’t have any money, but I’ve been told I’m good at sucking --”

Larry feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Oh, my god, no. No, you don’t have to -- no. Absolutely not. You’re free to stay here, just… don’t go out getting black-out drunk again, and clean up after yourself.”

“Okay. Sorry.” Freddy says, the tips of his ears turning a bright red.

“No, don’t worry. It’s okay. I know how it gets out there.” 

Freddy smiles in relief. “Thanks,” then, after pausing for a moment, continues, “Should we eat?”

\---

Dinner passes by slowly, both of them taking time to eat over their conversation.

“So what do you even do for work?”

Larry racks his brain for an answer that isn’t either lame, suspicious, or both. “Uh, it’s just an, uh, office job.”

“Why are you lying?”

“What? I’m not --”

“No, I can tell. Your eyes went up to the right -- sure sign of lying. I took AP Psych in high school.”

“Oh, little kid-genius!”

“Shut up! I’m not even that much younger than you!”

Larry laughs. “Okay, you got me. You really wanna know?”

“Yes, what the fuck! Why are you so weird about it?”

“Okay, okay,” Larry says, “If you’re gonna live here, I’d feel bad lying to you, and I totally understand if you don’t want to stay here after this.”

“What, are you some sort of sex-worker? ‘Cause like I said earlier, I’ve been in my fair share of --”

“I don’t need details, kid. And no, I’m not -- to be 100% honest, I work with Joe Cabot.”

“Cabot? Like the --”

“Yeah, like the organized crime family.”

Freddy leans back in his chair and looks at Larry for a long time. “I don’t believe it.” 

“What?”

“You’re too… I don’t know. It’s not possible for someone who wears Chacos and knitted cardigans to be in the mafia.”

“Hey! What, do you want proof? Also, it’s not the  _ mafia _ ; it’s the  _ mob _ .”

“How?”

“Here -- I’ve got a tattoo.” Larry says, pulling the sleeve of his cardigan back to reveal a small tattoo of a handshake pierced by a knife with blood dripping from its tip.

“So?”

“ _ So _ it’s called the  _ L’Homme Criminel _ tattoo. It’s used to identify some criminals.”

“Wait, I remember reading about this. Isn’t it --” Freddy stops, face flushing a little.

“What?”

“Nevermind,” he says, “Uh, this spaghetti is really good.”

Larry worries for a moment that Freddy knows the  _ other _ meaning attached to the tattoo -- that it was used to specifically identify organized criminals that were gay.

They sit in silence for a moment before Freddy pipes up, “So, you’re really involved in organized crime? Not joking?”

“No, I’m not joking.”

“What’s it like?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Like... what do you do?”

“I mean, Joe orchestrates a whole bunch of stuff, from arson to extortion, but he mostly gets me for robberies.”

“You’re serious?”

Larry feels a wave of regret wash over him for a moment before figuring that hey, if this kid seems interested enough to ask what he  _ does _ for the mob, he probably won’t turn him in -- and besides, what evidence has he got, anyway?

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“What did you do today? Oh, my god, did you shoot someone? Do you have a gun? Are you like Michael Corleone?”

“What? Yes, of course I have a gun, but no, I didn’t shoot anyone -- I don’t take lives unless I have to, and never women or children. And if I was any Corleone, I’d be Vito.

“You’re not even  _ old _ !”

Larry laughs. “Again, flattery will get you places.”

Freddy laughs with him and, to his horror, Larry’s heart skips a beat.

_ You can’t fall for the kid you’re essentially babysitting. Especially when he’s 10 years your junior.  _

Larry takes a bite of spaghetti and pushes the thought down.  _ If you don’t think about it, it can’t get you. Just ignore it. _

\---

After dinner, they watch a movie -- Freddy argues for the “1975 classic  _ Super Inframan _ ”, Larry retorts that it’s “his house, his pick _ ”  _ and that he’d “never even  _ heard _ of  _ Super Inframan, _ so it’s not a classic”, Freddy reminds him that he “ _ just _ said it’s my home, too” and that “it is  _ too _ a classic, you’re just uncultured”, and Larry gives in: “Fine, fine, Super  _ Inframan _ it is, but I’m not uncultured.”

Larry spends most of the duration of the movie picking it apart (“ _ Demon Princess Elzebub _ ? Really?” and “These monsters are, to be frank, absolutely ridiculous.”), which Freddy consistently rebukes (“She’s  _ cool _ !” and “It was the 70s, what did you want them to do? Use non-existent CGI technology?”). 

When the credits roll, Larry’s half-asleep. Freddy taps his shoulder a few times and he starts.

“I’m awake! Jeez,” he says, then, seeing the credits, “Oh, is it over?”

“Yeah, did you like it?”

“It was fine, apart from the costumes, setting, characters, plot --”

“Oh, shut up!” Freddy says, pushing Larry’s shoulder. 

Larry laughs and, again, Freddy laughs with him.

\---

They head to bed around midnight. Larry offers to take the couch, but Freddy insists that “It’s fine, you’re the one letting me stay here, anyway.” and he isn’t awake enough to argue, so he lets Freddy take the couch, figuring he’ll work a better arrangement out after the heist. 

He falls asleep after tossing and turning for the better part of an hour, but eventually manages it, drifting into a deep slumber. 


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gratuitous cooking scene

Larry’s sleep is fraught with uncomfortable dreams -- of the heist going wrong (bad), of his father (also bad), and of Freddy (running the gamut from the somewhat-unpleasant memory of Freddy throwing up to the extremely-weird sex dream about him, which Larry tries (and fails) to immediately forget).

When he wakes, it’s to the smell of pancakes. 

_ What the fuck? _

Larry gets up, sleep still settled into his limbs, and makes his way down the hall. In the kitchen, he finds Freddy, threadbare blanket wrapped around his shoulders in the cold, swaying to  _ Twist and Shout _ by the Beatles. Larry’s heart does the familiar  _ bumbumbumbumbum! _ that it always does when he sees Freddy, no matter how much he fights it back. 

_ Larry Dimmick. Again: You Cannot Fall In Love With Someone Who Is Essentially Your Prot _ _ égé. _

“Oh, hey! I hope it’s okay I made breakfast -- I figured since you have pancake mix, you’re fine with eating them.” 

“It’s more than fine -- thank you, actually. I’ve got to get going soon, and I wasn’t going to bother with making anything.”

Freddy smiles and flips a pancake. Larry’s heart mirrors its arc through the air.

\---

Breakfast is quieter than last night’s dinner, the music from the radio (the Pastel’s  _ Nothing to be Done _ ) filling the silence between them. 

“Okay, I’ve got to get going,” Larry says, clearing off his side of the table and taking his plate to the sink. 

“Robbing a bank today or what?”

“No, oh, my god. I -- nevermind. It’s none of your business.”

“I need to know if you’re going to like, die or get arrested or something.”

“Jeez, you’re cheery.”

“What?! It’s a valid point!”

“No, I don’t plan on dying or getting arrested. I’d like to think I’m good at my job, thank you very much.”

Freddy laughs. “Okay, good to know.”

“Alright. I’m heading out. Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Okay,” Larry says, “Please actually eat today.”

“I will, jeez!”

“Okay,” Larry says, eyeing him, “I’m off,” before heading out the door.

\---

The heist goes off without a hitch -- they’re in and out within two minutes, if that, and the exchange for the jewels is seamless. They’re done in less than two hours. 

Adrenaline still rushing through his veins, he stops on the way home at Trader Joe’s to grab a can of their brand of Spaghettios (“Organic O’s”) and some cheap wine, and then at Target for a new pillow and a comforter -- if Freddy’s going to insist on sleeping on the couch, he should at least be comfortable. 

When he gets home, he hears music again --  _ Godsend _ by Beat Happening.

“Freddy?” he calls, his voice echoing down the hall from the entry.

“Oh, hey!” Freddy says, leaning over from the couch so his head pokes up. 

_ bumbumbumbumbum! _

“How’d the thing go?”

“Great, actually.”

“What was it?”

“Do you really need to know?”

“I’m just curious! It’s not every day that you find out your new roommate is a career criminal!”

“Fair. Still, no.”

Freddy purses his lips and thinks for a minute. “Was it that jewelry store robbery?”

Larry’s floored. “No.”

“Oh, it  _ so _ was.”

“No!”

“Whatever. If you really don’t want to admit it that’s fine,” Freddy says, popping his head back down. 

Larry sighs and slides his keys on the hook. Walking into the living area, he says, “I stopped at the store for Spaghettios.”

Freddy’s head pops up again from the couch. “What, really?”

“Yeah, Trader Joe’s. They didn’t have the regular Campbell’s brand that I’m guessing you’re used to, but they had these off-brand ones -- “Organic O’s”, they’re called.”

“Yeah, uh, that’s fine,” Freddy says, quite obviously nonplussed, “Thank you. It… thank you.”

“Kid, it’s genuinely not a big thing. They were literally a dollar fifty each.”

  
“No, I know. It just… I really appreciate it. And would you _stop_ with the ‘kid’ thing? I’m 32.”

“Shit, really?”

“How old did you think I was?”

“Mid-20s, tops.”

“Oh, my god. And you’re talking about me flattering  _ you _ .”

“Shut up, you’ve got a baby face!” Larry says, “Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Did you have lunch?”

“Yeah, I went over to Sonoratown. Got carne asada. There’s still some left in the fridge if you want.”

“I’m alright, thanks. I’ll just cook something out for myself. Do you want the Spaghettios or do you want somethin’ else?”

“Spaghettios would be great,” Freddy says, then, “Wait, are you cooking for me again?”

“I don’t trust you not to burn the food. The pancakes this morning was a nice gesture, but Jesus Christ, you really cannot cook to save your life.”

“Oh, whatever.”

\---

_ Nowhere Near _ by Yo La Tengo lilts through the condo as Larry waits for the beans to heat up. Freddy’s on the couch, as usual, reading a comic book. 

“What’s so appealing about those, anyway?”

“Hm?” Freddy says, tilting his head so that his eyes peek out from the side of the book. 

“Those cartoons you’re always reading.”

“Okay, first, they’re not cartoons -- they’re comics. Cartoons imply that they’re for kids.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No! They’re cool! They’ve got action and humor and romance and --”

Larry can’t help laughing at how indignant Freddy is. “Alright, sure,” he says, “hey, come help me with dinner. You should learn to cook.”

Freddy groans. “I’m just getting to the good part, though!”

Larry sticks his head over the counter and gives Freddy a warning look. 

“Okay, okay, jeez.” 

Freddy hops up from the couch and heads to the kitchen. “What are you making? It smells good.”

“You mentioning Sonoratown got me in the mood for Mexican, so I’m cooking out some stuff to put together a burrito.”

“I told you, there’s carne asada --”

“I’m vegetarian.”

“Oh! Okay. Nevermind, then,” Freddy says, “So, what are we doing with this stuff?”

Larry’s heart squeezes a little at Freddy’s use of  _ “we” _ \-- he pushes it down. 

“I’ve already diced some onions and minced the garlic. If you’d like, you could dice the bell peppers -- they’re washed, just sitting on the countertop. I’m going to saut ée the onions and garlic first so that they get nice and soft, and then the peppers can be added later so that they stay crunchy. I’ve got the beans set on simmer right now on one of the back burners, too, but I’ve still got to add some seasoning -- I’m thinking we use smoked paprika and turmeric, and of course garlic, and then Old Bay and taco seasoning along with some poultry spice. It seems like a lot, I know, but it’ll be so good, trust me --”

Freddy’s staring at him. 

“What?” Larry says, just a  _ bit _ unnerved by how intense Freddy’s gaze is.

Freddy starts. “Oh, sorry -- you just… you know a lot. It’s cool.”

Larry’s face flushes with embarrassment. “I don’t think it’s necessarily  _ cool _ for a grown man to be good at cooking, especially at my age.”

“No, don’t say that! I think it’s great. Your wife will be a lucky woman.”

Larry freezes, desperately searching for a way to respond without either outing himself or seeming rude, and is grateful when Freddy turns away towards the bell peppers. His positive attitude, however, is cut short when he sees how the other man is absolutely  _ butchering _ the vegetables.

“Hey, kid -- or, sorry, Freddy, hey. You’re strong-arming those a little -- they’re delicate, you’ve got to be careful with them. Here, let me show you,” he says, taking Freddy’s hand in his own and gently guiding it, quickly slicing the peppers into even cubes. 

He doesn’t realize that they’re essentially holding hands until after the peppers are all divided up. When he does, his face grows hot, and he jerks his hand away. Larry’s surprised (to put it  _ lightly _ ) to see that when Freddy looks back at him, his face is burning, too. 

He does his best to act normal. “Okay. I think we can add them into the pan in a few, once the onions and garlic are browned. While we wait on that, I’ve got some leftover rice we could cook down.”

“Um, yeah, that sounds good.”

\---

The rest of the cooking lesson passes by without incident, albeit with some intense lingering awkwardness over the whole bell pepper affair. Freddy refuses to meet Larry’s gaze, instead keeping a laser-focus on stirring the rice.

Larry does his best to avoid any more homosexual-panic episodes, but can’t refrain from making little comments: “You’re stirring it too hard -- go easy on it, it’ll blend together more smoothly if you’re gentle with it.” and “Here, crush these tomatoes into the rice. They’re nice and wrinkly, so they’ll cook into it easier than the ripe ones.” and “Hang on, I’m just going to add some olive oil into the mix and some smoked paprika -- don’t worry, the paprika doesn’t really change the taste too much, it’s like turmeric in that it just changes the color a bit.”

After a while, Larry can sense that all the information’s overwhelming Freddy, so he dismisses him with a “Hey, go ahead and set the table -- I’ll just warm up the tortillas and then it’ll be all done.” Freddy ducks out of the kitchen and Larry takes a moment to steady himself against the counter.

_ You’re batshit. You’ve lost it. You’re Insane, you’re -- _

Just as Larry’s about to Absolutely Rip Into Himself, Freddy calls: “I’m done setting the table, I think? I couldn’t find napkins.”

Larry rips himself from his train of thought and calls back, “I don’t have any nice ones. I just use the paper ones, Bounty, I think.”

Freddy’s laugh sounds from the living room and Larry is again hit with a wave of feeling like he’s finally  _ home _ . 

“Dinner’s ready.”


End file.
